


Grasping Tightly

by Nightheart



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 12:37:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4706309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightheart/pseuds/Nightheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every night he comes to her... because he can't stay away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grasping Tightly

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What I hold in my hand](https://archiveofourown.org/works/316147) by [kameo_chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kameo_chan/pseuds/kameo_chan). 



> Companion piece to Kameo_chan's "What I Hold In My Hands" written with the authors permission. I stole the idea from something else I'm working on (is it stealing if you take if from yourself?) but I hope you all enjoy.

He'd promised himself that that night would be the last time, that he wouldn't go back for another taste, but it seemed that he had at last found something to which even his stubbornness was not the equal of. She didn't know how he'd grown to need her, Maker willing, she never would. He was mortified enough when she was ignorant... having her know how badly he craved her, thus opening him up to weakness and exploitation, was not to be thought of. The sweet taste of her magefire was nectar to him and he was irresistibly drawn to it. Even when she wasn't nearby he thought about it, dwelled on the memory of the last time he'd tasted of her, his body craved her magic as surely as any lyrium addict ached for his next fix. He wasn't sure if it was because she was a blood mage, but when he joined thier bodies and activated his lyrium brands inside of her, he could pull in her magefire and use it to heal his lyrium brands of the slow creeping decay that threatened his life.

Lyrium was poison in its natural state, everyone knew this. Templars and even Dwarves handled it with the greatest of care. He had a large fortune's-worth of the stuff grafted into his skin; the only way that _that_ was possible without it slowly poisoning his body was by a powerful blood magic spell. He wasn't sure how it worked, he assumed it must somehow cleanse his blood of lyrium poisoning and keep the system in balance. Now that Danarius was dead he'd probably never know... which was bad because it seemed that the spell was deteriorating.

Until recently, a black decay and spread along the lyrium of his brands of his skin. At first only a few slightly grey-ish patches had appeared at the tis of his extremities. Those small matte grey patches had darkened to black over time and began to spread, traveling up his hands and wrists and arms, up his feet and ankles and calves. He began experiencing headaches, dizzy spells, episodes of violent uncontrollable rage. He'd started to phases in and out of the material world uncontrollably. His body ached and his muscles had begun to suffer uncontrollable shaking spells that had sometimes been so powerful he had become injured during them.  Those had been the effects of the slow lingering poison of lyrium entering his blood as the spell slowly broke down within him.

He had been dying.

To this day he wasn't quite certain what had prompted him to bed the witch. Perhaps it had been a morbid curiosity about how she would taste. Perhaps it had been a dark, secret desire to have a blood mage under _his_ power for once. He was quite sure they'd both been at least a little drunk off some Antivan Fuk-you-up... and he had been dying. He'd known it, so he'd decided there was no harm in appeasing a secret curiosity he'd nurtured and thought never to act upon. There were brands on his cock as well, and what he'd discovered the first time he'd thrust himself into her was that he could absorb the magefire in her body into him the same way he pulled magic through the fade.

He closed his eyes as the memory of their first night hardened him, making him ache with the memory of the sensations he'd felt the fist time he'd made her his. Taking her had been the most exquisitely pleasurable experience he'd ever felt in his whole pathetic life. It wasn't just sex, _that_ he'd had in a variety of ways. When he'd pulled in her magefire, pure delicious _magic_ had flooded his body. Wave after wave of ecstasy swamped every nook and crevice of him, feeding springs and riverbeds in his lyrium brands that had dried up years previously. Dead channels which had longed for rain with an ache he'd thought merely the price of his power. Just touching her center and drawing her mana in through his fingertips had left his skin tingling and his body aching and hungry for more. Her body had belonged to him that night and he'd taken his fill over and over. It had been like a spring rain revitalizing the desert. He hadn't known that anyone could feel such excruciating pleasure and remain sane afterward.

He'd drank from her to his satiety that night, telling himself that this would be the only time. He'd looked at his brands the next morning to discover to his surprise and wonder that the black stretch of decay along his brands, a creeping line that he'd thought had been counting down to the end of his miserable life, had suddenly been cleansed and returned to its previous brilliant whiteness. She'd healed him, restoring his power and strength, and saving his life without ever even knowing it.

So now he needed her. He resented that. He was fine without her for a time, but then the decay crept in, little by little; his attunement with his markings faded and his ability to use his powers became chancey. If he left it for too long he got headaches and shakes just like the worst of the lyrium addicts. Sex with the bloodwitch banished the decay for a time, but it always came back. He _knew_ that if he told her she'd try to _do_ something about it, and he didn't want her bungling around with the thing that was nominally keeping him alive (as well as killing him) the way she'd bungled around with her stupid ancient elven demon-mirror. So he let her puzzle over why he came to her every night when they were camped in the wilds, traveling in company.

She was already in her bedroll at the edge of the camp, far away from the revealing light of the embers that flickered low in the middle of the night as the last warmth of the day previous leeched away and the true chill of the night crept in. Wards and magics guarded the safety of the camp so that split watches were not a necessity to keep watch for danger, which was good, otherwise their little tryst would quickly become a not-so-well-kept secret. Fenris had waited for the breathing of the few others who shared their camp to even out, before he stirred silently from his bedroll and crept through the camp on feet made silent from a man who had leaned a skill of stealth to keep himself alive as a fugitive.

He honestly wasn't certain if he was glad or mildly insulted that she always feigned being asleep when he came to her. He crept softly into her bed, stealing up on her and settling himself against her warmth. She didn't push him away when he pulled aside her breeches and that was all the tacit permission he needed. He placed a hand over her mouth to keep her silent as he slid his aching manhood within her. Her inner flower was dry and rough, not having been properly prepared for him. It didn't seem as though she awaited his arrival with any anticipation. Her magic trickled out of her in teasing notes when he activated his brands, pulling her magefire from deep within her as he pushed himself inside. Even the smallest amount of her magefire was a near-torturous pleasure to him, and all of him ached for it with a hunger that surpassed _everything_.

"I know you are awake," he growled at her as he nuzzled into her neck, burying himself in the intoxicating pleasure of the faint pressure of magefire that rose up from her skin.

His Lyrium brands drank in the intoxicating wine of her magic through the few places he allowed himself to touch her flesh as though he were a man dying in the desert at last having found an oasis.

"No. You're asleep," she whispered back, continuing the fragile farce.

Part of him wished she would turn to him, as she had that night, welcome him and flood him with her magic actively... instead of his having to pull it out of her in dribs and drabs. Most of him was relieved she didn't. As foolish as he felt the pretense was at times, he was privately grateful for it, grateful that it left him with some small shred of pride. He hated being dependent on a mage once again. Hated needing her. Hated his weakness. Hated that she didn't need him.

He clenched his eyes shut as pleasure roared through him and he pushed himself inside of her deeper, pumping harder and faster, riding the exotic and excruciatingly beautiful tide of her magic when he pulled it from deep within her. He palmed her sex _hard_ , digging his fingertips in to awaken her body and make her need, just a little bit. Her magefire spiked within her, coiling within her and growing in intensity as he roughly pressed her nub. He had discovered that her magic quickened when he aroused her, feeding the storm within her and intensifying the pleasure coursing through his veins like liquid fire when he pulled her magic into him. 

Just a little more...

She whimpered with need as he clawed and bit at the places he knew she was weak to, pushing pleasure upon her to sate his own hunger. The alluring magefire built within her as he worked her, and he in turn pulled in ever greater amounts of power to sing along his body with agonizing ecstasy that built to a maddening peak at last. Her magefire roared through his body in a pleasurable rush that raced along all of his senses, causing him to loose himself as the magic he craved banished the last of the black decay in his markings. He closed his eyes, biting back a groan of relief and pleasure as he reached his climax, spilling his seed within her with a few last, hard thrusts. He waited for his heartbeat to slow even as his body hummed, throbbing and intoxicated. Damn his need.

"I hate you," he growled at her, meaning it... and not. As ever.

It wasn't her he hated so much as it was everything. He wanted to be free and he knew he never would be, not truly. There would always be a chain.

"I know," she said softly.

He couldn't read her tone, or her thoughts. He didn't know why she allowed him to use her body like some cheap dockwhore when she surely had been raised to expect better. He didn't know what she knew, but as long as it kept her quiet and willing, he'd gladly let her go on thinking it.

This couldn't last forever, he knew. His condition could change at any time. She might (rightly) grow tired of his inconsiderate treatment of her. Who knew, perhaps there might even come a man to attempt to steal her away from him. He hated it, but Fenris knew that things were too far gone for him to tolerate any rivals. The witch fell asleep for real after he was finished with her, and he looked at her with wolfish possessiveness in his eyes. There was always a mage with a leash, but... a leash could pull both ways.

Fenris examined his fingertips, watching the black of decay fade with sex-weary satisfaction. Perhaps it was time he re-examined their arrangement.


End file.
